


For the Sins of the Wolf

by thebeespatella



Series: Branco di Lupi [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Bisexuality is a real thing, Canon-Typical Violence, Getting off to murder, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Murder Family, Past Sexual Assault, Welcome to the Beltway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 06:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5529896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebeespatella/pseuds/thebeespatella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“No. I signed up for the class because of Professor Fell...He encouraged me to take this seminar, but since he retired…not that I haven’t been enjoying it so far,” he finishes limply. “I just have never found Dante that interesting."</i>
</p><p>  <i> Lecter grants him what probably passes for a smile from Scandinavia or whatever repressed as hell cold place he’s from. A quark of a thing, almost more a movement of the eyes than the mouth. “You will.”</i></p><div class="center">
  <p>--</p>
</div><br/>What Will wants from his senior year at Georgetown: 1) A degree; 2) Hopefully a job; 3) As little disruption as possible. What he gets instead: Hannibal Lecter, his highly disruptive professor in a seminar about Dante.
            </blockquote>





	1. Canto I

**Author's Note:**

> For [Anouk](http://its-snowing-murder-husbands.tumblr.com/) as part of the [Hannigram Secret Santa](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hannigram_secret_santa). Merry Christmas!

It’s the third lecture in this intensive seminar—twenty-three students sitting in the intimate quiet of Healy 104, sunshine beating their necks through the large windows as the air conditioner hums. D.C. stays as muggy as possible for as long as possible. Even the impeccable Dr. Lecter is in shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbows. They’re in their second hour of the class, and some students are looking longingly at the clock hung above the chalkboard, but Will is fixed on his professor, absent-mindedly swiping at the sweat on the back of his neck as his pen pauses for a moment. The room is charged with a kind of charisma that is very rarely seen in college classrooms, even this college—Georgetown has a _Reputation_ , but, as with everything in life, there are boring disappointments more often than Will would like, considering the debt he’s shouldering to make it through, but this is not the case today.

There had been some ill will at the beginning of the semester—English majors foamed at the mouth to take a class with the legendary Professor Fell, so when he suddenly announced that his poor health would warrant a replacement, there was general grumbling and a feeling of being shortchanged, and, as a whole, the class had silently agreed on resentment. Will had been glad at least for the dramatically shortened book list. Instead of the twelve separate books he’d have to pay for and lug home, the revised list that was emailed to the class was deceptively simple:

_“Inferno_

_Purgatorio_

_Paradiso_

_La Vita Nuova_

_(all by Dante Alighieri; translations by Hannibal Lecter).”_

Of course, Will had snorted at the conceit of the professor to insist on his personal translation, but also figured that if you took the time to learn classical Italian, you were owed a little credit. So he’d splurged on new books for once, and promptly devoured the translations over the course of the week he had free before classes started. When he first sat down in “Dante in Context—ENGL 498,” he’d already imagined (sometimes vividly, at night) the kind of man that would have such a penchant for carnality in the words he chose, a kind of efficient viciousness that seemed almost personal.

So when Dr. Hannibal Lecter had walked into class, forgive him if Will was a couple dollars short of surprise: The thin smile, intense gaze, the high sweep of cheekbones all fit the razor edge of his words, and when Dr. Lecter had said, “My name is Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Please have a seat, and the syllabus will be passed to you,” then he had a voice, resonant, even, to go with the poetry too. And Dr. Lecter has only continued to be as exotic as his name suggests, in trim three-piece suits with matching ties and pocket squares to boot, and a lilting accent Will can’t quite place no matter how much he listens for it in class, but imagines it rude to ask. Cufflinks. There is very little time to dwell in any case. Will scribbles furiously as Lecter talks, messy slashes of parentheticals and page numbers, half-remembered questions filling the margins. Every word out of Lecter’s mouth is carefully selected out of the oxygen around him, drawing breath only to continue the fluid speech.

“And I am sorry—it is time for our break, is it not? Ten minutes.” Lecter puts his chalk down briskly. The dull scraping of chairs as the entire class gets up to stretch their legs, wandering out into the cooler shadow of the hallways.

Will, however—hovers. He has questions, he always has questions, but God forbid he go to office hours, much less strike up random conversation as it pleased him. The less contact with the outside world the better, usually, but he finds himself continually drawn to the curious Dr. Lecter. So while it would appear that Will is simply thumbing through his book, slumped in the back row of the class, his mind _hovers_ between sitting and walking, reading and staring. He looks down and sweats some more.

“Mr. Graham.” There is a narrow stripe of shadow across the pages. His head snaps up.

It’s Lecter, sleeves still rolled up, tie loosened a little at the throat. His fingers are finely dusted in chalk, but his clothes remain spotless. Will wonders for a moment what his dry cleaning bill must be like, then reminds himself to find a time to do the goddamn laundry sometime this weekend.

“Professor Lecter.” Will says it without stuttering. He deserves a medal.

“You are a senior in the College, correct?”

“Yes. An English major.”

Lecter considers him for a moment. Will feels skewered, but suppresses the urge to babble. “So. Dante. An interest of yours?”

“No. I signed up for the class because of Professor Fell. I had a class with him before—Literary History. He encouraged me to take this seminar, but since he retired…not that I haven’t been enjoying it so far,” he finishes limply. “I just have never found Dante that interesting.”

Lecter grants him what probably passes for a smile from Scandinavia or whatever repressed as hell cold place he’s from. A quark of a thing, almost more a movement of the eyes than the mouth. “You will.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It is, Will.” His name sounds delectable in the rich voice, rolled across that tongue. “And you should know that I always keep my promises.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Re: the title:** : Hell, as conceived by Dante, is classified into three types of sins, named after the three animals the Pilgrim encounters in Canto I of the _Inferno_ : A she-wolf, a lion, and a leopard. There are a bunch of different theories about what they symbolize, but the translation I'm using assigns the leopard to sins of incontinence (like, not being able to control yourself—not just...peeing), the lion to sins of violence, and the wolf to sins of mailce.


	2. Canto II

From: crawfordj@georgetown.edu

To: wg666@georgetown.edu

_Will—_

_I won’t be able to make it to class tomorrow. Please just follow the material we discussed last week._

_Regards, Jack Crawford._

That’s the email he gets at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday night. The leaves have just started to turn; the sky darkens earlier and earlier outside classroom windows. The school falls into a rhythm, and it begins to be more difficult to distinguish the freshmen from the seniors (although not by much), and now Will has twelve hours to prepare a lecture for fifty-some-odd students who were, to say the least, as unimpressed with having to take a class on literary techniques as Crawford was unimpressed with their writing skills. So it was a Writing 101, sort of bullshit class, so what—Will endeavors not to teach it like it is bullshit, but he contemplates for a moment just popping in a movie and catching a nap in the back. Between being a teaching assistant, his part-time job, and actual class work, he’s worn thin, to say the least.

Instead, he pops another coffee pod in Bev’s Keurig machine and opens up PowerPoint. He pulls out his annotated version of the syllabus, crammed full of his narrow handwriting, and starts to type.

He is miraculously on time—early, even—to class, sprinting up the steps to set up the projector in front of a mostly-empty classroom. He double-checks that he’s signed out of his email, because of course this would be the one time he got Viagra spam or some other shit coming up to interrupt class, he straightens his tie and jacket for roughly the billionth time, and by the time the last student is seated, he’s pretty sure he’s going to die of hyperventilation.

(Bev had come in at two in the morning, complaining about the mud and dark on the path back from the library.

“Crawford wants me to stand in for him,” Will said. “Today.”

“Oh, cool.” She took a swig directly from the carton of milk, then shrugged at the face Will made. “What, you afraid of my cooties, Graham?”

“Just—use a _glass_ , Bev. Anyway, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.”

“Oh, shut up. You’ll be fine.”

“Bev—”

“You’ll be _fine_ , Will. Good night.” It hadn’t been exactly inspiring).

“Good morning,” he says. His roommate Abigail is sitting in the back of the class, and he is avoiding eye contact because his life depends on it. “Professor Crawford had a…an emergency”—he realizes he actually has no idea why Crawford isn’t here—“so it’s going to be me instead. We’ll just follow the syllabus, so it’ll be the usual. I know the reading was unusual this week…”

The back door to the classroom opens, the hinges squeaking as it swings. None of the students turn, used to stragglers sheepishly tiptoeing in late, but Will pauses for a moment. It’s none other than Dr. Hannibal Lecter, unmistakable with a coat draped over his arm, clean leather briefcase in the other hand. Will kicks his ratty backpack deeper under the teacher’s desk.

“The reading. The reading was unusual this week because it was less theory, it was more important for you to know the myths we’ll be discussing. The first part of the course is focused on symbolism—so astrology is an important component, considering both the origins of constellation names, and the symbolism of stars to begin with.

“So. Let’s start with the Fisher reading. Who can summarize—Adam?” He nods at the lanky kid in the first row, who is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Fisher lays out the most basic components of modern astrology,” Adam says. “He discusses and classifies each of the eighty-eight modern constellations, and goes into cursory detail about each one. His discussion is mostly useless”—the class titters and Will silences them with a look—“because you had us read the actual origin myths as well, as part of the reading for today. But Fisher really gets a lot of things wrong.” Another murmur of laughter through the class, and Adam blinks, his hands tighten on the desk.

“Go on,” Will says to him. “Why is Fisher wrong?”

“He’s not entirely wrong. He is usually factually correct. But when he talks about the number of stars and constellations available to the human mind, he favors poetry over facts. Fisher contends that it is our imaginations and the boundless nature of the universe that make the universe seem infinite.

“Arguably it’s our lack of sufficiently sensitive instruments that bar us from measuring the actual edges of space. Also, we don’t think there are more constellations than there are. He just neglects to define ‘asterisms,’ such as the Big Dipper or Orion’s belt—smaller components of the 88 constellations that are familiar to us, but aren’t actually constellations themselves.”

“‘Poetry over facts,’” Will repeats, turning to write the phrase on the board. “I like that. ‘Poetry over facts’ is a succinct way to summarize the actual use of symbols—evoking the poetry of facts to push the reader toward a certain conclusion or feeling…”

After class, Adam comes up to him, looking very intently just behind Will’s left ear. “I’m sorry. If I talked too much,” he says. “I just—I like space. And Fisher got it wrong.”

“No, Adam,” Will says. He is suddenly hyperaware that he is holding this kid’s feelings in his hands, and it feels like a lot. “I’m glad you contributed. I didn’t know about asterisms, and the difference is symbolically important. So to speak.”

Adam smiles uncertainly.

“I’ll let Professor Crawford know that the Fisher reading isn’t great,” Will continues. “The purpose of this reading was just to give you facts, not to test you.”

“Oh. Okay. Good.” Adam’s hands twist into themselves again, but lacking the urgency from earlier. “Thanks. Have a good day, Professor Graham.”

“I’m not a—” But Adam is out the door with the rest of his class.

Will is bent over trying to coax his computer cord out from the sticky outlet under the desk when he hears a soft footfall. In his surprise, he yanks the cord free and promptly bangs his head on the desk.

“Hello, Will,” Lecter says. “Or, shall I say, Professor Graham.”

“I tried to tell him,” Will snaps. A weird heat is prickling his collar and his skin, so instead of looking at Lecter he stuffs his things into his bag, rips his tie off and shoves that in too.

“You did very well.”

“Thanks.”

“Jack asked me to sit in.”

“Oh.” Will pauses. “Thanks. Is he okay?”

“His wife is ill, unfortunately,” Lecter says.

Will frowns. Although he’d only met her once or twice, he recalls that Bella Crawford was a lovely woman. “Oh.”

“I shall see you later today?”

“Oh. Yeah. I’m going to Professor Crawford’s office to do some grading, but after that.”

Lecter smiles at him, wider than before, then steps out.

Will snorts at himself. Like Dr. Lecter cared about his schedule, or where he was going to be. It had been nice of him to let Will know that Will hadn’t totally fucked this up, but that didn’t mean he needed to know about every second of his day. _Get a grip, Graham,_ he says firmly to himself, shoulders his bag and walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There is no academic named Fisher, to my knowledge. People mix up constellations and asterisms all the time, and it bothers me unduly.


	3. Canto III

“Graham. Hey, Will. Will.”

“ _What_ , Bev, I’m trying to read—”

“Pass me your phone.”

“No,” he says automatically. “Wait, why?”

“You haven’t been listening at all,” Bev hisses. They’re sitting on the second level of the library. Will prefers quieter spaces—this is where the student-run coffee shop is, so people are chatting and the espresso machine is going off with a whoosh every few minutes, but Bev needs the ambient noise, so the compromise is a rickety table tucked in a corner away from the buzz of other students. It doesn’t stop Bev’s lab partners from stopping by to say hello, putting their books down and pulling up chairs.

“We were just talking about—do you know Margaret? Hoffman?”

Will huffs a sigh. “Bev, we’ve been over this. The likelihood of me knowing anybody—”

“Doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Will can’t fight that logic, so he says, “No, I don’t.”

“Well, she was our TA for bio, freshman year,” Jimmy says. “And she just got engaged. To some guy she met—”

“—On Tinder,” Brian finishes. “ _Tinder._ ”

“Like, the app?”

“Yes, the app.” Jimmy rolls his eyes. “Thank goodness you’re pretty, Graham.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that so he keeps his mouth firmly shut and just hopes he isn’t blushing.

“Anyway, Brian and Jimmy chickened out, and there’s no way I’m making one, so I wanted to make you a Tinder profile,” Bev says.

“The logical conclusion,” Will answers dryly.

“Aw, come on.”

“No.”

“Come on! It’ll be fun.”

“For _you_ , Bev. It’ll be fun for you.”

“You could do with getting laid.”

Can’t fight that either. While it’s not his primary driver by any means, there has been, of late, a sort of slow, sticky feeling low in his belly. It happens sometimes, a desire for something real, with edges and mess—none of the clean edges of textbooks or pocket squares—just something present, visceral, mind-numbing. It doesn’t necessarily have to be sated by sex, but it is the easiest way. “What would I even…?” he begins weakly.

“Nothing! I would do everything,” Bev says, and Will doesn’t know whether he should be anxious or relieved.

“Come on, Graham.”

Will stares blankly at Jimmy. “This is a terrible idea.”

“We only have, like, nine months left to make terrible ideas!”

“Yeah, better get pregnant fast, Bev.”

“Shut up, Brian,” Bev snorts. “Your phone, Will.”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” he asks, digging in his pocket and then passing the phone over the table, to elated looks from Brian and Jimmy.

“Yes,” says Bev. “Thanks, Will. We promise not to make you seem…unstable.”

“Gee, thanks. I’m going to take a walk. Don’t fucking drop my phone. You guys want anything?” he asks, indicating the vague direction of the coffee shop.

“Nope.” They’re all just absorbed on the little screen in Bev’s hands.

Will shrugs on his jacket, and takes the stairs up two at a time to step outside into the bracing air. He fumbles for a cigarette; they’re his one indulgence. The first acrid burn always feels like release. The garish light of the lamppost just by the entrance to the library stings his eyes a little, so he looks out into the dark—poorly lit brick paths cut across the lawn, Georgetown’s façade marred by fences and cones for construction.

“I would recommend against smoking.”

He whirls around. “Professor Lecter!” At the sight of his professor, there is a sudden warm knot, much like a fresh pretzel, sitting under his sternum. Will files that away for later and smiles ruefully instead. “I know. It’s bad for me.” Another long drag off the cigarette.

“Repercussions for your health aside,” Lecter says. “It wouldn’t do to ruin your palate.”

“I’ll let you know if my opinion on instant ramen changes.”

Lecter tilts his head, smiles that slight smile. His hair isn’t combed back as severely as usual, so a few strands fall across his forehead. In the dramatic lighting outside, the sharp hollows of his cheeks, the recesses of his eyes are much more pronounced. “One should eat well when one can.”

“‘One’ isn’t exactly a master chef,” Will admits.

“Cooking is something of a hobby of mine.” Lecter pauses. “Perhaps you will allow me to cook for you, some day.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—that isn’t what I was trying to—”

“Unfortunately, nothing I make is vegetarian.”

Will turns to stub his cigarette out on the post provided, breathes out the last of the smoke. “Well. Thanks.”

“I would sincerely enjoy it,” Lecter says. “Are you going inside?”

He holds the door open for Will. They both flash their ID cards at the guard, who waves them lazily on. Will stops on the landing for a moment, but Lecter just presses on downstairs. “I have,” Lecter says, as they broach the noisy bubble of the second floor, “what I must admit is an unpleasant meeting.”

“Oh. Sorry if I kept you—”

“Not at all, Will. After all, I am quite sure the other party will be…late.”

“Why do you sound like you’re looking forward to it?”

Lecter looks at him for a long moment. They stop just where the plastic seating directly outside the coffee shop ends, and the library tables begin. Will can feel Bev staring, and ignores the itch to turn and glare at her, and looks Lecter in the eye instead. “You’re very perceptive, Will.” It can’t be more than a murmur, but it cuts through the noise like a knife through celery: Crisp, clean. “I do feel satisfaction at the anticipation of the end of this man’s rudeness.”

“Must be your last meeting, then.”

“Oh, it will be. Although the nature of my work requires that there will always be components of my past in my future. But it doesn’t do to dwell on what is beyond our grasp.”

“I’m trying to live more in the present myself.”

“It is a _gift_ , Will. That is why it is called the present.” Will snorts at the awful joke, and Lecter smiles, then puts a hand on his shoulder. Through his jacket, his shirt, it feels like a brand, as though Lecter’s hand is charcoal resting in embers. “You feel it also?”

It’s phrased as a question, but Will doesn’t have time to answer—Lecter turns away. Will makes his way back to Bev, picking his way through chairs and computer cords.

“Who was that?” she asks, one eyebrow raised.

“I know that look, Bev, and shut it down. He’s my professor.”

“What look? And his being your professor doesn’t mean anything.”

“Beverly, I would _never_ —”

“Oh, shit. He called you ‘Beverly,’ bringing out the big guns, Graham—”

“Shut up—”

Bev rolls her eyes. “I was just teasing, Will. What does he teach?”

“My Dante class,” Will mumbles.

The expression on her face changes, if possible, to even greater heights of arch delight. “Oh. The one you can’t shut up about? That’s _The_ Dr. Hannibal Lecter?”

“Oh, my God, Bev. Why.”

“Why not,” Bev murmurs, leaning to try get a better look at Dr. Lecter. “Seems tasty enough for you, Will.”

“ _Tasty—_ ”

“Sure, why not, my little graham cracker,” Jimmy adds. “I’d let him toast my marshmallow any day.”

“That’s because you’re a massive slut, Price,” says Bev. “Speaking of which, here’s your phone. We’ve already set you up on a date.”

“Why is this my _life_ ,” Will says, and unlocks his phone.

“Her name is Molly. She’s very cute.”

“Thanks, Brian,” he says absently. He taps on the app. She _is_ very cute—heavy blonde bangs, a sweet smile. Bev had talked to her about dogs, and books, and suggested they meet for coffee next week Saturday.

“I don’t have time for this,” he says.

“Shut up, Will.” Bev’s voice is full of affection. “You better show me what you’re wearing before you leave the house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shoutout to not looking unstable on Tinder.  
> *On smoking: I was kind of surprised, actually, that TV Will doesn't smoke—then again, network TV. Anyway, he does in _Manhunter_ , and I think it fits.


	4. Canto IV

He absolutely does not spend most of the following lecture sifting through Bev’s words, turning them over and over in his mind. He most certainly does not watch Dr. Lecter’s hands, large and elegant, with the frisson of some vague fantasy zipping down his spine. He _does_ try to focus on the words, rather than the mouth and the voice.

_You feel it also?_

Feel what, exactly? Will doesn’t exactly have a treasure trove of knowledge when it comes to understanding—things like this. He’s bad at picking up sexual cues and even worse at personal ones, and to focus on it at all is actually frustratingly confusing.

Will is smart. He’s always been smart. He got out of Biloxi and into Georgetown, and he can get out of most problems if he tries. But these crises of confidence, these awkward openings for self-evaluation and reflection and—

He takes a deep breath.

_You feel it also?_

It’s not that he has trouble coming up with fantasies—if anything, Will’s imagination has always erred on the side of vivid—it’s more the whole distasteful business of being stripped and exposed, the way he knows reality will always supplant and destroy imaginings. Not that Dr. Lecter is in the business of wanting to peel the layers of Will away from where they’re stuck to him. It had occurred to Will the night before that Dr. Lecter probably invited everybody to dinner; although, it is difficult to think of him as anything less than immensely private. They still didn’t know where he even came from.

_You feel it also?_

“Jesus Christ,” Will says under his breath, and refocuses on the moment.

_Live in the present._

“So the concept of _contrapasso_ ,” Dr. Lecter is saying, “evokes more readily in Dante the Poet the lovely sensation of epicaricacy— _schadenfreude_. He begins to own and revel in his own self-righteousness. The more he sees he pleases Virgil, the crueler he becomes. Recall how the Pilgrim kicks one of the frozen traitors in the face, in Canto Thirty-two. I have always found his cruelty in the presumed service of piety to be one of the more curious aspects of the _Comedia._

“Consider—just last week, God dropped a church on thirty-six of his own worshippers, just as they were singing a hymn to praise him. I collect church collapses for this exact reason.” Dr. Lecter pauses in his pacing for a moment. “Typhoid and swans. They both come from the same place.” He resumes walking the length of the chalkboard. “So is Dante commenting on this duality—the awesome terror of an omniscient, omnipotent God? Or does he not see how his slavish devotion to goodness prompts derision, even hatred, within his own soul? The mercurial whimsy of man’s moral compass—how can we hope to understand God when we walk blindly, following poets in the dark? So this takes us to the prompt for your final paper.” He clicks, changes the PowerPoint slide. “Is man inherently good or evil, according to the framework set by Dante’s _Divine Comedy_?” he reads. Below, it says, _Answer in 8,000 – 10,000 words. (Times New Roman, pt. 12, single-spaced. 2.5 cm margins)._

Will hastens to write it down, double-checks that he’s got the wording exactly right. He frowns slightly at his notes. Centimeters. He sits there for a moment, even as the students around him gather up their things as the clock tower heralds the time, two chimes to announce the half-hour. Whatever thoughts he had about Bev and feelings and hands are shoved briskly out of the way to make room for the final prompt—a philosophical reckoning.

Dr. Lecter is waiting by the door, hand poised to switch off the lights, so Will shrugs his jacket on and fumbles with his bag, all too aware of how flustered and messy he must seem to the immaculate Dr. Lecter. “Thanks,” he mumbles on his way out the door.

“Of course. Are you busy?”

“No,” Will says, too quickly.

“Perhaps you would be kind enough to walk me to my office?” Again, it’s phrased as a question, but Will has no option but to follow Dr. Lecter out into the dark, out the front doors of Healy Hall. He sidesteps the mosaic of the seal of Georgetown—an eagle clutching a cross in one set of talons and a globe in the other—more out of habit than anything; urban legend says you don’t graduate if you step on it.

They are silent on their walk. The noise and bustle of students around them seems to fall away, and Will can only hear the rough rush of his own breathing, his heart in his ears. He is focused, intently, on the now, pulled, for once, out of the anxious future or the worried past. They walk into the muted dirty gray of New North, where the English department is housed. Suddenly Dr. Lecter is pitched back onto the plane of the mundane—waiting for an elevator. Will can see him, if only for a second, brushing his teeth, doing laundry, putting on socks.

“I notice you don’t step on the seal,” Dr. Lecter notes. “I would not have taken you as one for superstitions.”

Will shrugs, one-shouldered. “The closer I get to graduating, the fewer risks I’m willing to take.”

“Surely”—the elevator _pings_ , they step onto it—“the certainty of graduation would encourage some recklessness, some desire to harvest all the _carpe_ _diem_ available to you now.”

“I am wary,” Will says, “of extremes. Suppose I want to avoid the volatility of Dante the Poet, in trying to fulfill societal expectations?”

“It sounds like you value control.” They’re walking along the narrow, dimly lit corridor, to the shoddy plastic plaque that says _Hannibal Lecter, English_. “It is strange,” Dr. Lecter says, referring to the plaque, “that I teach almost exclusively works that were not originally written in English, yet, that is where I land.” He unlocks the door, and they both step into the office.

It’s a small, cramped space, as expected—stuffed bookshelves taking up the majority of the space, although there are two chairs by a surprisingly large window. “Forgive Georgetown her decadence,” Dr. Lecter says, putting his coat and briefcase away.

“I lived in the dorms,” Will answers, dropping his bag as he looks out the window. “I’m familiar with forgiving Georgetown.”

“Of course. Would you like a glass of wine?”

Will turns to him, unsure. Of course, his face is placid, impassive. Unforgivingly pleasant. “Drinking with your students, Dr. Lecter?”

“Outside of class hours, perhaps you could start to think of us as—friends.”

Will stops to look at him—really look. In the shadowed light of the office, Lecter seems taller and broader than he does from a distance in class, standing with perfect posture, long fingers lingering on the neck of a dusty bottle. Poet’s hands, cleaner and softer than Will’s motor-battered ones will ever be.

“Sure,” Will says. “I’ll have a glass.”


	5. Canto V

It becomes something of a ritual—after class, Will follows Dr. Lecter to his office. They sit and talk Dante, among other things. Maybe it’s the wine, but Will finds himself surprisingly fluid, open, sharing hypotheses and theories with a directness that he finds difficult to summon even around Professor Crawford. The notion of their being friends isn’t suspended, like a teacup mid-fall, it is gaining form and a comforting sort of solidity.

(“Please, in this room, call me Hannibal.”

A crooked smile. “Of course, Dr. Lecter.”)

It is not so much a peeling away as it is a cutting into; less awkward unpracticed hands tearing at pretentions and more a scalpel wielded in the artful science of soul surgery. Will knows—can feel—the air on his increasingly naked form, and would feel vulnerable if he didn’t strongly suspect that Dr. Lecter— _Hannibal—_ was matching him for every article of clothing. He’d like to think it isn’t the wine, because he finds himself increasingly intoxicated by Hannibal’s insight, his words, at being able to share so fully in a way that feels almost criminally private; ideas and poetry and daring sewing their minds together in a slow, intimate, embrace.


	6. Canto VI

Molly is a grad student, working on her thesis in public policy. She seems to like that Will (Bev) had asked her for coffee rather than drinks, and vehemently bemoans her landlord’s policy against pets. They don’t have sex, but she does initiate a goodbye kiss that turns a little heated until he pulls away, breathing hard. “You’re cute. I’ll call you,” she says, and heads inside.

“Yeah, sure,” he says to the air in front of him. “Call me.”

“Is that seriously all you have to report?” Beverly says from her seat on the couch. They live in a ratty little house on T Street in Burleith, just north of campus. The door opens right into the living room, dragging the ragged doormat with it on the open and the close, so it’s sadly easy for Beverly to trap him the instant he came back from coffee with Molly.

Her friend and sometime partner for her research project, Alana Bloom, is here, and Will wants very much just to head directly to his room and live under the bed. He’s always liked Alana, and she is extremely pretty, and to be talking about this—here—now—was too much. “I can’t believe I put on pants for this,” Bev complains to Abigail, who comes in through the back door.

“For what?”

“I think the public prefers that we wear pants,” Will says, going to hang up his jacket. “Besides, those are sweatpants, Bev. It’s not like you tried.”

“Low _blow_ , Will,” Abigail says. She almost sounds impressed.

“Shut up, Graham, I do what I want.” Bev turns back to Abigail and Alana. “Can you believe this kid? I set him up on a date, and it’s just, ‘She liked the coffee. We might go out again. We made out a little.’ Where’s the detail, the color, the verve? I thought you were an English major. Pull it together, Tolstoy.”

“I don’t know, okay? Was I supposed to take notes?”

“Not _literally_ —”

“She sounds nice, Will,” Alana interrupts. “I’m surprised you found anyone halfway normal on Tinder. I was on it for a while. Really not my thing.”

“Not really my thing either,” Will says, glaring at Bev. “She set it up.”

Bev shrugs. “Don’t see you complaining.”

“I saw Professor Lecter,” Will says. “That’s a detail.”

“Not a relevant one.” Bev dismisses it with a wave of her coffee cup. “Please tell me you didn’t get a boner for Dante and ignore her for, like, fifteen minutes.”

Abigail laughs so hard she coughs. She isn’t even trying to be subtle about it.

“I do _not_ get boners for Dante,” Will says. “Why is that even a sentence I have to _say_. And I saw him afterwards, anyway.”

He had made it down the steps that lead to Molly’s townhouse without tripping, blood still running hot from her gentle lips on his own, when he saw Hannibal crossing the street. He stood there dumbly for a second, staring until Hannibal’s eyes caught on him.

“I hope she doesn’t cut into class time,” Hannibal had said, smile not quite reaching his eyes.

“Oh, I—we aren’t—I don’t know.”

“As is often the case,” Hannibal said. “Regardless—”

“It wouldn’t cut into class, anyway,” Will said. “That’s not what I’m here for.”

“As a mentor, I should remind you that Georgetown encourages _cura personalis_ —the growth and care of the mind, body, and soul,” Hannibal said, looking piercingly at him.

“ _Cura personalis,_ ” Will grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Hannibal hummed a noise of sympathy. “Perhaps you could bring your friend over for dinner.”

“I wasn’t aware it was a standing invitation, Professor Lecter.”

“You are nearly out of school—”

“Don’t remind me—”

“—And so perhaps we might socialize. Like adults.”

Will stared at Hannibal. The office was one thing. His home was another. “I don’t think I’d make good company,” he said finally.

“I disagree. If I recall, there is an upcoming holiday.”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”

“He invited me to Thanksgiving,” Will recalls suddenly. “Oh, my God. I think I’m having Thanksgiving with Dr. Lecter.”

_(“I might just be insisting, Will.”)_

Alana smiles. “That sounds good. I quite like Hannibal; Abigail and I had him for a class on psychology and literature. I didn’t develop a boner for Dante, though, and he certainly never invited me over.”

 _Hannibal_. Will turns the name over in his mind, tries to imagine calling the man _Hannibal_ in casual conversation, outside the office.

Bev is looking at him, lips pursed. “Maybe it isn’t Dante you have a boner for.”

“If I’ve got a boner for anyone, it’s probably Dante. Professor Lecter and I—he’s—I’m one of—how many students? I think he’s a thesis supervisor too. Fuck, I have to talk to Crawford about my thesis. Not the point. My point is,” Will stops only to draw breath, “that my relationship with Dr. Lecter is—and _will_ _stay_ —relatively flaccid.”

“ _Relatively_ ,” Bev says triumphantly. “Relatively. I hope you have to eat your words, Graham. Every single one.”

“You are the worst friend I’ve ever had,” Will says, starting up the stairs.

“Hey!”

“Okay, not the worst,” he concedes. “But just know you’re in the running.”

“If you’re going to be bitchy, at least put your back into it,” Bev calls after him. He just gives her the finger and tries to focus on something, anything else than the hot thrum in his pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * **Burleith** : A neighborhood just north of Georgetown's campus. A large proportion of upperclassmen live around there.   
> * _ **Cura personalis**_ : A Jesuit saying that essentially means "to care for the whole person." It's been applied generally to remind students to care for their communities, as well as their personal well-being, but also to remind Jesuits to care for each person as an independent individual, with unique gifts and abilities.


	7. Canto VII

From: lecterh@georgetown.edu

To: mg666@georgetown.edu

_Dear Will—_

_My invitation for Thanksgiving remains open, of course—although, unfortunately, you will not be the only guest. I will be available to pick you up, as I live just far enough outside of the Metro system so as to be inconvenient. Please let me know if I can expect you._

_Regards,_

_Hannibal_

_PS: Your NetID is oddly apt for our course._

Will hovers his mouse over the email, reading it once again. He had planned to—well, he hadn’t planned, really.

_I will be available to pick you up._

“Head out of the gutter,” Will mutters to himself, and shakes his head once to clear it.

 _Dear Hannibal—_ he begins. “Dear”? What was this, a Regency drama?

 _Dr. Lecter—_ Too distant. He had been calling him ‘Hannibal’ for weeks now; it would be strange to revert to formal titles.

 _Professor—_ Fucking hell. He is going to die writing this email.

He finally settles on just his name, as neutral as possible:

_Hannibal,_

_Thank you so much for your invitation—I would be happy to attend. You don’t have to pick me up, I can make my way over, if you don’t mind giving me your address._

_Best,_

_Will_

“Ugh, fuck, fuck, fuck.” He quickly opens up another reply window:

_Should I bring anything?_

He stares at the screen for a few moments, then slams his laptop shut and goes downstairs. There’s leftover takeout in the fridge, and he eats it right out of the carton. Considering the wine he had in his office, Hannibal would probably be appalled. Will snorts at the idea of Hannibal eating cold takeout like this, in flannel pajama bottoms and a stained Georgetown shirt he’d gotten for free at some event or another.

“What’s funny?” It’s Abigail.

“Ah—nothing. Just thinking about what a sad picture I make.”

“You’re doing okay, Will,” she says, opening the fridge to take out a salad.

“Thanks.” Will frowns then, taking a moment to swallow before he asks, “Abigail—what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Her eyes flicker to the floor for a moment, but then hold his steadily. The terrible accident that had left her orphaned was rarely, if ever, mentioned in the house—when other people asked about _the Hobbs girl_ Will and Beverly fiercely waved the topic away with a barrage of observations about the weather or similarly insipid things. “Will,” she says quietly. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m just asking—”

“I thought I might just hang out with whoever’s left on campus, maybe volunteer to give out food to the homeless. My chaplain from freshman year is doing a thing, so—”

“Do you want to go to Thanksgiving with me?” Will blurts out, and promptly wants to shove the words back down his throat. “I mean, I don’t know, but I was invited to—and you like—and he likes you, right? So—”

“Are you inviting me to your Thanksgiving date with Hannibal?” Abigail asks, in a creepily reasonable tone.

“It’s not a _date_ ,” Will says, tossing his empty carton into the trash. “And yes. I’ll ask him.” He pulls out his phone, and before he can overthink it, sends:

 _My friend Abigail Hobbs has also found herself without anywhere to go on Thanksgiving. Do you mind if she comes as well?_ He’s only just put his phone back in his pocket when it buzzes with an email alert. Abigail is eating her salad, leaning on the kitchen counter opposite.

_Dear Will,_

_I would be more than happy to host you and Abigail both. Please bring only yourselves—I look forward to seeing you at the front gates at two._

_Best,_

_Hannibal_

“Front gates at two on Thursday,” Will informs her.

“Wait—he said I could go?” There is a little tremor in her voice that Will pretends he doesn’t hear. He’s very busy himself, trying to keep the sudden outpouring of warm gratitude contained within him, smiling broadly and suppressing the urge to skip.

“Of course,” Will says. “He likes you. And he wouldn’t—he knows—he wouldn’t leave you to hang out with your _chaplain_.”

“My chaplain happens to be very cool,” Abigail says, but she can’t control her wild grin either. “Thanks for asking him.”

“Told you it wasn’t a date.”

“Get changed, Will. We have to get him a present.”

“He said ‘bring only yourselves’—”

“He didn’t _mean_ it, you idiot. How hard is it for you to pick out an outfit, anyway? Just pick any old shitty flannel shirt, Will—”

They’re walking for a little while before they realize they have no idea where to go. Wine is the obvious choice—although neither of them speak wine, all Will really knows is from _Sideways_ and Hannibal himself. (“So no fucking merlot.”) They both come from families that got food out of the land and sea, and the physical pleasure of eating was found in the labor of it. Anything else was indolence—interesting, but not for them.

“There’s that place on Wisconsin,” Abigail says. “The Wine Cellar? The Bacchus Wine Cellar? Something like that.”

“There’s something appropriate in that, don’t you think?” Will says, and they walk to where Reservoir Road ends, the little tangle of streets lined with Georgian townhouses with brightly painted doors, then they reach the roaring dullness of Wisconsin Avenue.

D.C. is depressing in the rain, the bright red buses far too bright for the gray wet edges of a cloudy day. Will steps into a puddle and swears. “Forgot it was fucking monsoon season.”

Abigail tugs him along. “Up there.”

It isn’t underground, which Will dubiously assumes is a plus.

“Hello,” the man at the counter says warmly.

Will nods at him, walks around slowly. He swallows the impulse to ask if they stock anything made with grapes, and contents himself with running his fingers over the dry paper of the labels.

“Looking for something in particular?”

Will opens his mouth to say ‘No’ just as Abigail says, “Yes, actually.”

He follows them around silently as Abigail talks to the man: “We’re looking for a gift—someone generously invited us to Thanksgiving, so something appropriate for that.”

“Family?” the man asks, and then he and Abigail exchange a rather rapid back-and-forth about Hannibal’s cooking (“Meticulous, I assume”), tastes (“Petit Bordeaux?” Will interjects. “Also, Bach.”), and inclinations (“He really likes classical literature. Is that what you meant?”). They finally settle on something, Abigail tactfully steering the shop owner toward wines within their budget.

“I’m Venmo-ing you now,” Abigail says as Will steps up to pay.

“$50.74,” the man says, and Will bites the inside of his cheek but puts down his debit card anyway, and they walk outside with a carefully wrapped bottle of—

“Well, you can explain it to him,” Will says. He passes the narrow bag to her as he fishes in his pocket for a cigarette.

Abigail is watching him. She looks concerned, and that is never a good sign.

“What?”

“Do you have anything to wear?”

“Yeah.”

“Something that isn’t just plaid and jeans—”

“These aren’t jeans—”

“I can’t even begin to explain to you,” Abigail says calmly, “how much I don’t give a shit. Do you have anything to wear.”

“White shirt? Black coat?” Will says, blowing out smoke.

“I don’t remember you ever wearing either of those things,” says Abigail. “We’re going to go home and check right now.”

Bev laughs hysterically when he tries to figure out what to do with his hair, which is zero percent encouraging. Abigail’s mouth twists into a scold when he digs out his nice things from where they’d been shoved into the back of the closet, but takes them into her room anyway and presses them. He can hear them both giggling at something as he polishes his shoes on the porch; probably about him. He just works conditioner a little more deeply into the leather, and sets them aside to dry for a minute. The air is crisp and heavy with night, the small light above the door the only thing illuminating the street.

The door creaks open behind him. “Hey. You taking off?”

“Yeah.” Bev’s breath clouds in the blue air. “Got to get to Union.”

Will just nods his assent and scoots closer to his shoes so she has enough room to go down the front steps. The newspaper he’d carefully put down crinkles anyway underneath the wheels of her suitcase. Bev always, always over-packs. It’s a moment before her cab pulls up, blinking softly in the gloom. Will walks over to help her with her bag, even though she waves him off, and then she hugs him close. Her wool headband is scratchy against his face. After a flicker of hesitation, he puts his arms around her, too. “Have a safe trip,” he says.

“You’re so sweet, taking care of Abigail like that,” Bev says into his ear. “I didn’t even think—”

“It would’ve been hard to explain to your family.”

Bev steps back, shrugs. “I could’ve tried. But seriously—you’re the best. This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful for you.”

“You’re going to make me cry, Bev,” he says dryly.

She just laughs, and kisses him on the cheek as she slides into the backseat. “You two behave yourselves at Dr. Lecter’s!”

“Of course,” he says, watching the cab speed away. “Do I have any other choice?”


	8. Canto VIII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, a Lecter Thanksgiving.

Thursday afternoon is a pale slate gray, the sun hiding in white behind stripes of cloud. They nearly forget the wine, Abigail forces Will to shave, and Abigail changes her shoes three times. Nonetheless, they are more or less on time as Will helps Abigail navigate the slippery jagged brick in her heels as they cross campus to wait at the front gates.

(“Did you bring other shoes?”

“Of course. But I’m not going to wear them. Sign of weakness, Graham.”

“Of course. Watch your step.”)

They’re standing at the crosswalk at the front gates, waving on cabs that wait for students straggling home. “This is weird,” Abigail says, fingers worrying the strap of her purse.

“Yeah.”

“I’ve just—always thought I’d go home,” she continues, and Will doesn’t have it in him to tell her that he doesn’t feel like talking about her parents right now. “And I don’t—I don’t know—”

She’s interrupted by the sleek black car that pulls up in front of them. It’s Hannibal, and he leans across the gearshift to throw open the passenger door. “Going my way?”

“Professor Lecter!” Will lets Abigail sit in front, taking the seat behind her. “Thank you so much for having us.”

“It is my pleasure,” Hannibal demurs. “And please—call me Hannibal, especially in my home.”

Will stops himself from pointing out that it’s really just his car, and instead pulls out the papers he’d brought to grade, shuffling them straight in his lap. He considers for a brief moment, when he makes fleeting eye contact with Hannibal in the rearview mirror, that it might be _rude_ , of all things, but then, he’s never had a head for etiquette and he’d really like to send his students feedback on their papers before the weekend. Abigail and Hannibal keep up a soft conversation in the front, and Will can’t remember the last time her smile was so wide, and he has the brief thought that maybe _she_ is the one with the boner for Hannibal, then promptly sits on the notion. Surely he would have known.

They drive behind the school, past the hospital, through Foxhall. The houses take up more and more space as they wind through quiet roads, the spaces wider and wider between them. The roads are smooth as Hannibal swerves gently to avoid the worst of the potholes, but the glory of the suspension in a Bentley is such that Will hardly notices, intent, instead, on his papers. Finally, they pull up in front of a house at the end of a dead end, made of dark brick and with wide stairs leading to a generous porch.

Will climbs out of the car, his eyes not leaving the polished brass lion’s head knocker that adorns the door, the ivy that grasps at the columns that support the terrace. Is this what tenure can buy? Has Hannibal authored a teen vampire novel on the sly? Would it be so bad to grit your teeth and actually write a vampire novel, if you could live here?

_Keep it together, Graham. You haven’t even been inside._

He only goes up the steps once Hannibal does, taking in the details—the wooden chairs draped in blankets out front, the small light next to the door. The numbers 231 gleam against the dark green paint on the door.

“I admit,” Hannibal says, unlocking the door, “that I picked this house in a fit of whimsy. Psalm 23, verse one.” He guides Abigail through the door, then stops to let Will through. “‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.’ There is something about teaching at a Catholic school that makes the heart susceptible to omens.”

Will glances back at the car. “Are you all right to park there? Don’t you have a garage?”

“I assure you, the car will be fine. And my garage is…otherwise occupied at the moment.” Hannibal’s hand is large and warm as it presses against the small of Will’s back, the door clicking softly shut behind them. The entryway is dark, and Will feels heat rise in his face, the sticky tack of sweat along his palms, and just winds his hands in the hem of his worn jacket and walks forward. “I’m afraid I must ask you to remove your shoes. It’s an old habit of mine.” Will hurriedly bends to untie his laces, putting them on the rack by the door, next to a neat stand of umbrellas. Abigail does the same, and Will thinks for a moment that her heels were wasted on this occasion. “May I take your coats, bags?”

Will just blushes a little more and mumbles “thanks” before taking off his jacket, so old and ragged-looking in the fine-carved marble of Hannibal’s hands as he hangs it up. But Hannibal just smiles and says, “ _Apres vous,_ ” so Will shuffles into the house.

The first room is, for lack of a better word, a sitting room—people have _dens_ or _living rooms_ nowadays, but it doesn’t seem like a room that real people could live in. Just sitting, with a glass of something strong and sweet, perhaps in front of the fireplace that Will is sure is real. The walls are a rich dark plum, adorned with framed prints, including a rather large one of Boticelli’s _Primavera_ over the mantle.

“I wasn’t aware you lived in a museum,” Will says.

“Neither was I,” Hannibal, the smile clear in his voice. He takes them through to the dining room, which is just as ridiculous as the last, painted a deep blue, with a shiny long dark table in the center, and ornate chairs lining it neatly. There’s a fucking chandelier. Will represses the urge to just walk out. The house is undoubtedly Hannibal’s, but just as the suits are; they all belong to him and wear his shape, but there is something stiff and stale about it all, starched and—Will almost laughs as the word comes to him— _fussy._ It isn't that Hannibal isn't neat, his office is always organized and he returns assignments in alphabetical order, not a coffee stain to be seen, but this is something else.

But Will’s breath comes short when they finally come to the kitchen. In contrast to the rest of the house, it is white and full of light, the lines simple and clean. Granite countertops and steel, a truly absurd number of knives laid out on the table, copper pans hung from the ceiling. The afternoon sunlight is streaming through the sliding glass window, lending a gleam to everything it touches. Abigail is glimmering when she turns around and says, “It’s beautiful, Hannibal.”

Hannibal merely ducks his head and pulls off his jacket. “It is for food. Nothing less than perfection will suffice.” He hangs his jacket on the back of a chair in a cozy nook in the corner of the room, and then his vest over that, rolling up his sleeves as he turns on the sink to wash his hands, and Will follows suit, careful not to splash any on himself. “Unfortunately, I must do you the discourtesy of asking you to help me with some things,” Hannibal says, opening a drawer to pull out three folded aprons. “I went to pick up some pork last night, and the pig was unusually uncooperative, so I am running behind.” Will takes one, while Hannibal helps Abigail with hers, ensuring that it’s cinched securely about her waist and neck. “I hope you both have experience in the kitchen.”

Will narrows his eyes against the sun and tilts his head, looking at Hannibal. “Of course.”

“Abigail, you will be in charge of washing and peeling the vegetables.” He indicates a basket, filled with bright rough oranges and yellows and greens. “Will—just a moment.” He leans into the fridge, humming a little.

“Oh, Dr. Lecter.” Abigail fumbles with the small paper bag she has in her hands, which Hannibal has graciously ignored until now. “I know it’s not much, but—we got this for you. I hope you like it.” Hannibal turns as the fridge door drifts closed, and puts the paper-wrapped object he’s holding on the counter.

“How thoughtful,” he murmurs, picking up the bottle of wine. Will bites his lip and tries to calm his racing heart. “I told you not to bring anything,” he says reproachfully, in Will’s direction.

“Didn’t know we’d have to work for our dinner,” Will responds. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have.”

“Well, we should open it. Have a glass to celebrate.” He crosses to a cabinet and pulls out three bulbous glasses that have the resonant chime of real crystal, pops open the wine without any ado, smells the cork. “Lovely.” He pours an ample glass each, and Will takes his awkwardly, wincing at the way his hands smear the glass.

“What shall we toast to?” Abigail asks.

“Perhaps—to having a family of friends,” Hannibal says, and brings their glasses together with a gentle _clink_. He takes a generous sniff, a small sip, lets it sit in his mouth. Will watches him swallow. It feels like forever. “I am not ordinarily a fan of New World wines,” Hannibal finally says. “But I must admit that this one tickles the palate in a way I have rarely seen.”

Will drinks, more for something to do, somewhere else to look except at the sheen of wine-stain across Hannibal’s lower lip. The wine is surprisingly—sprightly, almost savory, deep and cunning.

“Stag’s Leap, petit syrah,” Hannibal notes, turning the bottle to look at the label. “I shall have to remember that. Thank you so much. There’s nothing that keeps the mouth more alive than good wine, and so I always try to drink while I cook.” Abigail fucking giggles, and Will sighs at him, trying to keep the good humor off his face.

“You’re terrible,” he says softly when Hannibal comes around to his side, unwrapping the packages. “Do you know how old Abigail is?”

“Twenty-one?” Hannibal ventures.

“Twenty,” Will says, raising an eyebrow.

Hannibal glances at the girl by the sink, who is cheerfully scrubbing some carrots. “She hasn’t aged a day.”

Will snorts and takes another sip of wine. “Terrible.”

Hannibal smiles, that bright thing that Will doesn’t see outside the office, and Will has to return it.

“I thought to prepare some fish, in case some among us desire some lighter fare. I bought these whole, from the market—”

“I know how,” Will says, sliding the trout across the counter toward himself. “I can gut and clean the fish. How do you want it prepared?”

“As whole as possible, please,” Hannibal says, looking at him curiously. “Keep the skin.”

Will gestures for a cutting board and a knife, then sets to work. He checks the blade for notches and dullness (of course, there is none), and then he puts it down, nudging Abigail aside to rinse the fish off thoroughly, one side, then the other. His fingers slide under the gills, along the fins and tail until he’s sure the fish is free from grit, then he pats it dry (Hannibal hands him a towel) and lays it on the thick wooden cutting board, angling the large fish upward.

The knife cuts through its belly like butter, cutting smoothly from the small hole under the tail to just short of the head. It is probably the sharpest knife Will has ever handled, but with the old balance of a practiced hand, he doesn't blink, just slides the edge once again to make sure it’s a seamless breach. There is some blood that rosies the translucent flesh. Then he reaches inside—fish insides are always, always cold—and pulls out the loose intestines, careful not to maul it. Some of the connective tissue is rubbery and stubborn. The fish has clearly not chilled for very long, because the blood is still fairly vivid, not the near-black that Will associates with ice-fishing. He pushes it all to one side, then unthinkingly scratches his face, leaving a streak of blood and presumably entrails across his cheek.

“I have to check on the pork,” Hannibal says, and abruptly leaves the room. Will is caught with bloody hands and no instructions, so he just starts on the second fish. The easy, mechanical work is soothing, and he finds himself cleaning and gutting fish after fish, rinsing out each one until he has four perfect trout.

Hannibal still isn’t back, so he goes to wash his hands and his face. Abigail is in the middle of peeling potatoes, and he goes to help, leaning against the counter to let the skins curl into the sink. She scratches her neck.

“You can take your scarf off, you know,” Will says.

“I know,” she says, but keeps on peeling.

“We’re not on campus,” he presses. “If you’re warm—”

“Dr. Lecter has never seen the scar before,” she says, hands stilling. She looks up at him.

“What are you afraid of?”

“I don’t know.”

“He, of all people, won’t mind.”

“Are you kidding? Look at his kitchen,” she hisses, and oh, her eyes are bright with tears.

“No, Abigail.” Will drops his knife and potato in the sink, and gathers her close. He only doesn’t pet her hair because his hands are dirty. “Nobody should mind, but Hannibal…Hannibal sees the beauty in every thing. Come on. It’s hot and itchy, and your dress is too nice for that scarf, anyway.”

“Sorry I’m not buying nice scarves,” Abigail mumbles, wiping at her eyes, but she lets Will’s fingers undo the knot, curl against the raised slice in her neck where her father had threatened to slice her open.

“Accident” was the polite word to describe how Abigail had lost her parents; the reality had Will forcing melatonin pills down with dinner and frequent nights with Beverly coming down to both of them asleep on the couch, his fingers still in her hair.

This is the scene Hannibal comes back to, Will making soothing noises and unwinding the scarf from around her neck while Abigail holds a watery smile on her face. Will only notices him when he goes to put the scarf on the chair.

Hannibal’s hands are bloody. He’s holding a few massive lumps of muscle in butcher’s paper.

“Must’ve been a big pig,” Will comments.

“Oh, enormous,” Hannibal says smugly, putting down the organs. “Truly, a large, rude, pig.” The light catches on his wide smile, the points of his teeth.

 

Hannibal prepares the pig’s heart, trussed up in twine on a bed of herbs, and places it in the lower of two ovens, then pulls out a blender. “Pig _foie gras_ ,” he says with another smile, and proceeds to obliterate the chunks of liver into smoothness. “Seared,” he adds, placing a pan over the open flame of his gas stove and molding little medallions. Will helps him; the liver feels too-soft and cool against his fingers. Hannibal drizzles oil onto the pan, then flips medallion after medallion, one by one, onto the hot surface until the kitchen is filled with the smell of cooked flesh. “It’s a shame to cook it,” he says, “but one never knows what pigs may be carrying.”

Next is the turkey, which sits in a pool of brine. It’s easily at least the size of Abigail’s torso, and certainly heavier. Salt, pepper, then rosemary, orange and cloves into the cavity, then into the oven. “Simplicity is best, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, _simple_ ,” Will drawls, but the sarcasm is either lost or ignored as Hannibal turns to instruct Abigail on how, precisely, to boil potatoes.

Hannibal is a wonderful teacher, but Will has never been so rapt as this. Hannibal is perfectly in his element, and it’s like watching a falcon dive after prey. Sleek, fast, movements spare and exact. He seems keenly super-aware of his surroundings, as though every time he puts something in the oven or on the stove, another timer pops into his mind, counting down the seconds until something has to be checked. Even messy, hands covered in turn by blood, pastes, garnish, hair falling across his forehead, even a light flush across his face, he is elegant. _Love_ , Will realizes as Hannibal braids dough, pushing pesto and dried tomatoes into the pockets. This is what love looks like. It’s the same look on his face when they get into the finer details of Dante (those snarky Florentines!), when Hannibal talks about some select art, and now, when Hannibal cooks—crafts—a meal.

“So how many people are coming?” Will asks, peeking over Hannibal’s shoulder as they check on the turkey.

“Twelve, including yourselves,” Hannibal says. He doesn’t use a thermometer; instead, he slides a thin knife into the turkey’s ribs and then tastes the dull edge. “Jack—Crawford—and his wife, Bella, some friends of mine who you have not yet met, and Bedelia du Maurier. You must be familiar—”

“She’s my dean,” Will says. “This will actually be the first time I see her in person.”

“But—you’re a senior!” It would be funny, how scandalized Hannibal looks, if Will weren’t suddenly so worried he’d done something wrong.

“I—I just talk to Jack,” he says with a shrug. “She’s busy, it’s hard to get an appointment with her anyway.”

“Well,” Hannibal says, closing the oven smartly. “It would be a mistake for her not to meet with one of her most talented students. I shall have to mention it to her.”

“Oh, dear God, no,” Will groans, burying his face in his hands. “Hannibal, please don’t say anything. God.”

Abigail is definitely laughing at him. Apparently she enjoys his distress.

“Why not? She should know—”

“It’s _embarrassing—_ ”

“What are you embarrassed about? You have a personal relationship with other professors, aside from myself. And she and I are friendly, I have already—”

“I don’t deserve any special attention,” Will says. His wine glass is empty, and Hannibal refills it. “Thanks, but I don’t need you—intervening on my behalf. I’ll be fine.”

“But you _do_ merit attention, Will,” Hannibal says, and it’s so earnest that Will blinks at him. Abigail isn’t laughing anymore. “Very special attention.”

Will is suddenly aware of how closely together they’re standing together, how the light is falling and laying heavy shadows against the cords of muscle in Hannibal’s forearms, his lean waist, his broad shoulders, seemingly towering over Will, like he could eat him whole. There is an intent look in his eyes, snapping fire.

“Not really,” Will demurs, stepping back but maintaining eye contact. “I’m not— _talented._ ”

“You underestimate yourself.”

“I—” He puts his hand on the counter to steady himself, and his glass topples over, crashing against the stone and spilling dark wine everywhere, gleaming against the wooden floors. The glass catches the light. The moment is broken. “ _Fuck_. I mean. _Shit._ I’m so sorry, I really, I’m sorry—” Will rambles as he seizes the opportunity to turn away, kneeling on the ground to pick up the bigger shards of glass, and promptly slices his hand open. The pain stings, brilliant and sudden. Hannibal tugs him up gently, and wraps his bleeding hand in his white, unstained apron, the blood staining the coarse cloth quickly. He applies a steady pressure, but is looking at Will’s face as Will hisses with the pain.

“Abigail,” he says, without moving. “You will find a broom and dustpan in the cabinet farthest to the left. Please sweep up all the glass on the floor, and you can take a towel from the second drawer to the right of the sink to clean up the wine. Do _not_ touch the glass.” His breathing isn’t quite steady, his voice harsher than usual.

“I’m so sorry,” Will says meekly, as they shuffle awkwardly down the hall, Will’s hand wrapped as it is between Hannibal’s hands. He doesn’t let go.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal says. “An easy accident.” He pushes open a door under the stairs, and flicks on the light. It’s a small half-bath, still rich in marble and steel, with a truly shocking painting of a woman and a swan hung above the toilet. He pushes Will to sit on the closed lid, while he kneels and searches in the cabinet under the sink for something, emerging with a first-aid kit.

Hannibal carefully unwraps Will’s hand, holding it closer to the light. The cut is a bright gash from the tip of his thumb to his palm, ending just under his index finger. Blood is smeared across his hand, almost orange in the light, and as his pulse jumps it wells with fresh blood, beading between the slivers of rent skin. He can see where the glass has parted the whorls of his fingerprint.

Hannibal doesn’t do anything for several long moments. “Going to kiss it better?” Will jokes, weakly, then Hannibal meets his eyes. Slowly—and it seems the very air stills for a minute—Hannibal brings Will’s hand closer to himself, lowers his head to first press his mouth against Will’s palm.

Will shudders. Hannibal doesn’t break eye contact, and he can feel the wetness of a tongue lapping at the blood. He slides his mouth between the thumb and index finger, a light scrape of teeth, the warm, soft pressure of lips. It is as though every nerve in Will’s body is on tiptoe, shivering with the slippery heat of Hannibal’s mouth as his tongue retraces the edges of the wound to suck along his finger. Will bites his lip. He can feel his heart racing and is sure Hannibal can feel it, too, his mouth intimately lining Will’s veins, breathing shallow against his palm. Will grips the edge of the toilet lid with his other hand as Hannibal opens his mouth slightly, and Will can see the wet slip of languid tongue, and—

“ _Ah_ —” he breathes, and—

Abigail knocks. “Is there a vacuum cleaner somewhere?” she asks through the door.

Hannibal’s mouth leaves him as slowly as it had come. His small smile is just as indolent, a gentle curl. “Leave it, Abigail,” he says, eyes not leaving Will’s face. “I will take care of it in a moment. Please tend to the gravy.” Footsteps leading away.

“Jesus, Hannibal—”

“We should take care of this,” Hannibal says, turning the tap. “It would be rude to leave her waiting.” He gently runs Will’s hand under cool water, which soothes the throb a little, then pours disinfectant over it. He rubs some ointment in, tapes down a gauze pad, and bandages it all up efficiently.

“Where did you learn this?”

“I have some medical training,” Hannibal says. “But it’s mostly translated into the culinary arts.” Their eyes dart up to meet, and Hannibal presses Will’s palm to his mouth again. “Better?”

“I think I’ll live, Doctor. Thank you,” Will says.

“I would have it no other way,” Hannibal murmurs, and Will can feel the words against his skin, then Hannibal turns and walks out. “Join us when you are ready.”

Will takes a moment to breathe, pressing his good hand against his heart as though to repress it. The glide of Hannibal’s tongue across his skin, burning, sinful heat—the smile, the knowing eyes. What game is Hannibal playing? More importantly—could Will play too? He tries to imagine himself coyly licking against Hannibal’s hand, then snorts at himself. Stupid. He stands up and adjusts his clothes, his hair, finally pressing a hand against the front of his pants.

Boners for Dante indeed.

“Fuck you,” he says to his reflection, then walks back to the kitchen.

 

The shattered glass is gone, and so is Hannibal.

“He said he had to go upstairs to change,” Abigail says. “Help me with the mashed potatoes.” Will obliges silently, certainly not thinking about Hannibal changing. It feels too hot, like his body is a candlewick, white and incandescent. “So.” Abigail nudges Will with her elbow. “‘Special attention,’ hmm?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, focusing on doling equal portions of potatoes out into little white ramekins.

“Bev is totally going to love this,” Abigail says. “ _Most talented student_. Oh, boy, Will. Maybe he’ll let you _underestimate_ him later—”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

She lays a dramatic hand across her forehead. “Oh, Dr. _Lecter_!” she says breathily.

“Why did I invite you,” he says. Her comments aren’t helping the blush high in his cheeks. He wishes he hadn’t shaved; he looks young enough already.

“I apologize,” Hannibal says, clearing his throat from behind them, and Will wants to _die_ , how long has he been just _standing there_ , “that I had to excuse myself. The turkey is taking longer than I anticipated.”

He is in a perfectly seasonal dark rust suit, checked, with a matching shirt and tie with a knot so wide it’s a miracle it isn’t knocking anything over, and Will feels more underdressed than usual. He joins them in plating the food, crusting the tops of the mashed potatoes with a literal torch, arranging the braised trout as though they are swimming through reeds of asparagus, giving Will and Abigail soft direction. Butter also goes into tiny, individual pots, just this side of warm, and Will carries the glasses and plates and silverware to set the enormous table. Hannibal joins him to light the candles in his goddamn chandelier.

“Why do you have that picture of the swan in your bathroom?” Will asks, making sure every place setting has all three forks.

Hannibal smiles, just with his eyes, as he leans to light the last candle. “I thought it was funny.”

Will stares at him for a moment, and then laughs. Of course, _funny._ “You are an odd duck, Dr. Lecter,” he says.

“Not a swan?”

“Very cute.” He goes back in to help Abigail with the bread, but then the doorbell rings.

 _Running_ isn’t exactly the correct word, but he definitely hurries in a slightly undignified way to the door. If it’s Dean du Maurier, and Hannibal _says something_ —

It’s Jack, who looks very surprised to see him there. “Will,” he says. “What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes,” Hannibal says from behind Will, who jumps a little. “I have finally cajoled him to try my cooking. Hello, Bella.” They exchange kisses on the cheek and he takes her coat.

Will wants to protest that he wasn’t _cajoled_ , but Jack just winks and says, “You won’t be disappointed.

Will goes back to the kitchen. “Dr. Crawford is here,” he says.

“Shit,” Abigail mutters. “I know I fucked up the last paper.”

“You live with me,” Will points out. “And I haven’t graded it yet.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when—hello, Professor Crawford,” she says with a blinding smile.

“Abigail,” he says. It isn’t cool, exactly, but more distant, certainly. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You, too,” she says, looking down to sweep more refuse into a plastic bag.

“Ah, Jack, I can’t have you looking behind the veil,” Hannibal tuts, leading Jack and his wife into the dining room. “Let me get you both some wine. Bella?”

“See,” Abigail whispers. “He hates me, and it’s not just because I’m not a great student, I think it’s because—because of my dad.”

Will wants to laugh, but thinks better of it. “That’s crazy,” he says. “I know what kind of crazy he is, and it isn’t that.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “It’s just—Dr. Lecter, Hannibal—has been so nice, and I almost forget, but then Professor Crawford is here and it’s the same thing all over again, like when everybody would stare, and…”

Will takes her hand from where it’s trembling on the counter.

“We can remake it,” he says. “You can remake anything you want, you just have to tell me. We’ll do new things, things you’ve never done before so you can remember that.”

“Thanks,” Abigail says. “But I don’t know if I want to have Thanksgiving with Professor Crawford.”

“Just try,” Will says, trying to smile encouragingly. It probably comes out as a grimace, but points for effort. “It’ll be so fucking weird. We can laugh about it later.”

“I hope so.”

“We will. Bev will think it’s hilarious.”

“Bev thinks everything is hilarious.”

“Maybe,” Will says, “because everything _is_.”

That earns him a small smile. “Only if you think _Waiting for Godot_ is a riot.”

“I have it on good authority that God is a staunch Modernist,” he says solemnly. “He thinks _Finnegan’s Wake_ is better than the Bible.”

She pauses for a breath. “Does God gloat?”

He drops his eyes to where the water is trickling down the drain, clotted with blood. “All the time,” he sighs. “All the fucking time.”

The doorbell rings. He lets go of her hand.

“Thanks, Will,” Abigail says.

“Go in there and say hello,” Will says instead of anything, pushing her toward the door. “I’ve got whatever this is covered.”

Hannibal stops on his way to the front door. “You are very kind to her.”

“Is she not worthy of kindness?” Will says. “ _You_ are going to have to do your damn prosciutto roses, by the way.”

“Every person is worthy of courtesy,” Hannibal says, leaning to inspect the roses. “Kindness is another matter. And yes,” he says, standing straight again. “I shall have to do those myself. Please just—leave them alone.”

Will huffs a laugh. “If it’s Dean du Maurier, you better not say anything!” he calls after Hannibal, moving the prosciutto so he can deal with the cranberry sauce instead. He ladles it into yet another bowl (where did Hannibal even store all of this?), then puts the small ladle into it, covering it as directed. There are several voices at the door, but Will is no less relieved. Meeting new people has never been his thing, so to speak. He nervously wipes his hands on his apron, wonders where the one covered in his blood got to. The people move into the dining room, glasses ring out. He can hear the good-natured murmur of Hannibal’s voice as it gets closer to the door. “Enough work,” Hannibal says, untying Will’s apron. His hands linger for a moment too long over the nape of his neck. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”

He steps awkwardly into the dining room. Bach is playing in the background. Jack and Bella were standing in a circle with the other people, shaking hands. Will accepts the glass of champagne Abigail shoves into his hand, but stops himself from draining it immediately, sipping at the bubbles that break in his mouth.

“This is Will,” says Hannibal. Four sets of interested eyes turn to him. One woman is particularly striking, with very straight, very black hair cut into a severe bob, and a painted red smile. “Will, this is Mr. and Mrs. Komeda; Mr. Barnaby and Miss Michaels; Mr. and Mr. Offalschwartz.”

He mutters hello as best he can, shaking hands as quickly as possible, but Mrs. Komeda arrests him with her glittering eyes for a second. “You have a brother, Abigail?”

She laughs. “With the way he worries, more like a dad.”

Hannibal’s eyes are bright as he takes his own glass of champagne, mischief tilting his smile. “Feeling paternal, Will?”

“I’m—I’m just another of Dr. Lecter’s students,” he manages. “He was very generous in extending his home to me this evening.”

Mrs. Komeda’s eyes flit between him and Hannibal. “I think I’ve heard about you,” she says finally. “Please—call me Irene.”

Will wants nothing more than to scurry back into the kitchen. Hide in the oven, perhaps. He doesn’t like eyes, eye contact, because they feel like acute fingers, or worse, they don’t feel like anything at all. Hannibal seems to sense his discomfort, and again places his large hand on the small of Will’s back. “I must tend to the food for a moment,” he says. “Will, if you’ll join me?”

It is, of course, not a question, and Will finds himself gratefully shutting the door between them and the noise. “Are you uncomfortable?” Hannibal asks, pulling up his sleeves slightly.

“Yes,” Will says. “People are—people are a lot.”

Hannibal says nothing, but stacks the dirty bowls and pans together in the sink, and Will hurries to help. “You aren’t nervous in class.”

“I used to hate going to class,” Will admits. “But it’s not really a social situation. It can just be me—just me, and the professor, and if I have to talk, it doesn’t have to be _to_ anyone in particular.”

“You always offer particularly succulent insight, Will. The class would benefit to hear it more.” Hannibal sets out a cooling rack, then opens the oven. “Just about done, I think.” He carefully lifts the immense, sizzling turkey out of the heat, onto the rack. The skin is crackling still. “It must rest.”

“Rest?”

“Yes. All meat should rest for at least half an hour after you cook it—longer, if you can spare it,” Hannibal says, inspecting the bird from all angles. “Well, there is nothing for it but to wait.” He picks up his flute of champagne and walks to the other side of the counter. “Here. I will show you.” He indicates the plate of prosciutto roses, with one, arch, delicate, in the middle, and two others deflated and miserable on the side. He takes the small fork, picking the ham up by one end and rolling it smoothly around the tines, as though it were spaghetti. Then he settles it upright, tugging the fork free carefully. He arranges it to bloom with his fingers.

“I think it will suffer less if you handle it,” Will says.

“If you will arrange the platter for the turkey, then.”

They work in silence for a time. There is laughter and voices drifting under the door from the other room, but inside the kitchen, it is solace—quiet, comfortable. As he arranges rice and flowers—yes, _flowers_ —for the turkey to sit on, the sweet low sound of a cello thrumming through the air, Will sneaks glances at the precise, practiced way Hannibal’s hands move as he arranges the food, the way his lips press slightly together as he hums along to the concerto, and, admittedly, somewhat shamefully, the way the muscles in his thighs and ass shift under the cloth of his suit pants. He is very nearly caught when the doorbell rings and Hannibal looks up, breaking the reverie. Will fumbles with the unruly stem of a violet. “Let’s see who it is.”

Will stands behind Hannibal when he opens the door. “Ah, Bedelia. Lovely to see you.”

“Hannibal.”

So this must be Dean du Maurier. She exudes a cold beauty as Hannibal takes a fur stole from her shoulders, running a discerning eye from Will’s unruly hair to his bandaged hand to the place where his socks are worn thin. “What have we here?” Her voice is plush and low. She is resplendent in deep red silk.

“This is Will,” Hannibal says.

“Mr. Graham,” Dean du Maurier says, gracefully accepting Hannibal’s hand as she steps out of her shoes. “I have heard so much about you.”

“Not all of it bad, I hope,” he says, fidgeting under her gaze.

“Not all,” she agrees. “I am concerned, however, that you are distracting Dr. Lecter from his work.”

“I don’t think I am—”

“Bedelia, if you’ll follow me.” Hannibal’s voice is firm. She tosses what passes for a smile on her icy features over her shoulder to Will, a parting shot even though Will isn’t even sure they were fighting.

The bell rings again, and Will answers it as Hannibal is in the dining room. “Hi,” he says before he can think better of it, “I’m Will. Please, come in.” She is a tall woman, perhaps taller than Will, even, wearing a strictly tailored coat that she undoes carefully when he shuts the door behind her. Her eyes glint in the dark—curious, but not cruel. But Will feels uncomfortable anyway, looking at the way her hair curls over her shoulder instead. “I’m one of Dr. Lecter’s students,” he says. “He—he invited me, he didn’t have to.”

“My name is Chiyo,” she says, voice accented but clear. “I am one of Hannibal’s very old friends.”

“Nice to meet you.” She is truly stunning, he thinks, as he silently offers to take her coat. He wonders where she and Hannibal met.

She slips off her shoes and bows slightly as she walks in. “ _O-jyama shimasu_ ,” she says, nearly walking directly into Hannibal as he comes to see to the door.

“ _Chiyo-chan_ ,” he says, with more warmth than he’s displayed with any of his other guests. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

Her mouth turns in a wry smile. “I was in the neighborhood,” she says.

“I see you have met Will,” Hannibal says.

“Yes. He told me—he is ‘just one of your students.’”

“Not ‘just.’”

“I am only repeating what he told me.”

He gets the feeling there’s something he’s missing, as they both look over at him with something like affection, but shakes it off and follows them into the dining room anyway, steeling himself for an evening in company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *There is no chandelier in Hannibal's dining room originally, but _you know he would._  
>  *The "hole under the tail" where you wedge the knife to cut open a fish is actually its anus. Sorry, guys.  
> *The painting in Hannibal's bathroom is _Leda and the Swan._ Originally, it's in his dining room (Chilton certainly gets an eyeful), but there was something about having it in his guest bathroom that I couldn't pass up.  
>  *The question of Hannibal's storage space, particularly in his kitchen, is the real mystery of the show to me. How many closets does he have? Does he have another house just for stuff? Is he a hoarder?  
> * **Chiyo:** I spelled it this way because while I know the 'h' is there for pronunciation reasons, but usually isn't used, even in translation. It would be like writing Tao Okamoto's name "Taoh Okahmotoh." Technically OK, looks super weird to me.  
>  * **O-jyama shimasu:** A phrase used when entering someone else's home, roughly translating to "Sorry to be a bother", or "Thank you for letting me impose on you." More casual wording—usually used for friends or family.  
>  * **Chiyo-chan:** " _Chan_ " is a diminutive term. It isn't usually used between adults (" _san_ " is much more common), but here, Hannibal uses it as a reference to their childhood friendship.


	9. Canto IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **PLEASE NOTE** that this chapter includes a very graphic recounting of rape. It's not a flashback or told as a narrative, but it is certainly detailed. I included this depiction because it has been an important part of my personal college experience, and it continues to be a serious issue, on American college campuses across the country. (I'm sure in other places as well, but I am most familiar with the American statistics). I'm afraid you will miss some plot if you choose to skip this chapter, but this warning is here because mental health  > fic, even if sometimes it feels like mental health = fic. 
> 
> That being said, enjoy.

_Tedious_ isn’t the right word, because _tedium_ implies that something is easy, but Will is sweating and stuttering and keeping to himself all through dinner, seated though he is at Hannibal’s left-hand side. He is happy to let others carry on conversation, Mrs. Komeda’s sparkling laugh and genuine compliments on the cooking are a soft tidal wave of conversation, too well-mannered for any rough contribution that Will could hope to generate. 

His ears burn and he wants to hide under the floorboards when Hannibal glowingly announces that the trout has been expertly cleaned and gutted by none other than one Will Graham, his simple name lilting and lovely on the accent, and now that he knows about Will’s hidden talent, he might have to keep Will chained to his kitchen, and no, that's not something he wants to think about at all. Even as the people around him trade niceties, his eyes will flash to Hannibal’s fingers, curled around the stem of his wine glass, flickers of his tongue as it chases the demi glacé, and God does it burn, does it boil low in his belly.

_Hannibal’s mouth—_

Dean du Maurier eyes him piercingly throughout this exchange, and Will defiantly stares back, determined to live through the flush in his cheeks and neck. What did she mean, anyway, about him distracting Dr. Lecter from his work. Surely Hannibal would have told him, or excused himself from an after-class session if he’d had something pressing—although Will can only imagine what sort of pressing business an academic would have. Writing articles, planning and attending conferences certainly, although how that is Bedelia’s business—

No matter. Abigail is laughing next to him, fitting in wonderfully at this society table despite her protestations. She has the kind of solid Midwestern charm that he’d stolidly refused to acquire (Southern, in his case), and is performing this dance very well. She almost reminds Will of a courtesan, all smiles and wit and tinkling glasses. He’s glad she’s enjoying herself. Joy has been too sparse this past year in their house, and he wants her to bring this back with her, maybe, if not for her own sake, then his own—there are only so many nights one can spend soothing each other, half-asleep on a couch without proper lumbar support.

When even Jack declares himself unable to consume another bite, Hannibal suggests they _retire_ to the sitting room (what the hell, Will thinks, kind of Victorian novel has he been pitched into), and so they all move, warm and full, to the low light of the plum room. Hannibal lights a fire, and the place is suffused with a pleasant glow. 

Chiyo, for the most part, has also kept to herself, although Will suspects she isn’t giving off an angular awkwardness as he tends to do, so he joins her on the settee, both of them accepting a small tulip-shaped glass of something amber and rich from Hannibal.

They both sip the amaretto (sweet, almost tangy with almonds, lush like butter) and observe. Will feels like they are both better here, watching, than in the fray. Will watches the details unfold—Abigail’s hand a little unsteady with her glass, one of the Offalschwartz men spilling hideously all over one of the chair cushions. 

“What do you see?” he murmurs to Chiyo, now focused on the way the firelight catches in his glass. 

Chiyo looks at him, with what seems to be a rare smile. It’s close-lipped and slow, like she’s holding a secret behind her front teeth. “Where you see the man, I have seen the cub,” she says. 

“Friends since childhood?”

“I was his aunt’s attendant. He came to us after he lost his family.”

Will startles, risks a quick glance at Hannibal, who is lounging, legs crossed, next to Mrs. Komeda. “He and I—we’ve never talked about family.”

She is still looking at him intently, eyes golden with the fire. “Where did you learn to gut trout, Will?”

“My father taught me,” Will says. “We still fish together, when we can.”

“Well.” Chiyo punctuates with a sip of liqueur. “So you are a fisherman.”

“As time and geography permits,” he replies.

“One degree removed from a hunter.”

He waits her out, battling the urge to pluck at his cuticles and sitting still instead.

And she says: “Sometimes water is thicker than blood, but a shark scents them both the same.” Her smile is brilliant, for only a moment, as they both sit on her words.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and she dips her head. “Sorry,” he mutters, going to silence it, but then he sees that it’s Bev, and there’s only one sentence, but it’s important: _Help me please._

“I—I have to take this. Excuse me.” He nearly drops his glass, but saves it without splashing amaretto everywhere, placing it hastily on the mantle as he texts back as quickly as possible: _I’m going to call you. Is that OK?_ He makes his way out into the hall and shrugs on his jacket, waiting for the reply. 

It comes in the form of his phone buzzing and the ‘The Great Katzby’ showing up on caller ID. She’d changed it herself, with a selfie of her giving him the thumbs-up as the contact picture. He answers before it rings a second time. 

“Hey! Bev, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Will, I—I’m so sorry, I know you’re at Lecter’s, and it’s Thanksgiving—”

“Hey, shh. Shut up. Bev, we do this for a reason.”

 _Help me, please_ has been their code since freshman year for real emergencies—for nights with too much cheap vodka and too little food, mornings with windpipe-crushing anxiety attacks, afternoons where the sobs won’t stop. 

“Talk to me, Bev,” he says, more gently.

Her breathing is uneven and raspy through the phone, and he can hear the telltale hitch in her breath that means she’s been crying. What she finally says is, “Have you seen _Jessica Jones_?”

He can’t help but let out a harsh sigh.

(“Bev absolutely cannot watch _Jessica Jones_ ,” Abigail had said one day before class, through a mouthful of yogurt.

“She can make her own decisions,” Will had countered.

“Will...”

“I know,” he’d snapped. “And I’m not about to tell Bev what to do.”)

“No, I didn’t watch it,” he says. “I couldn’t. Because of you.”

“Well, you know—you know what it’s about, right?”

“Yes.”

“I was just—everybody said it was so good, and I didn’t know, and so after dinner I started watching it and— _fuck_ , Will, I was so scared—he kept forcing himself on her, and it was like it was _that night_ all over again—and then I—”

He fumbles with his lighter, a bright flame in the darkness that’s wrapping Hannibal’s porch like a veil. A long drag of smoke. It's going to kill him, but it’s cheaper than anxiety meds.

“God, I couldn’t—I threw up, and I can’t stop—”

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand holding the cigarette, pushing his glasses uncomfortably up to his forehead. “Breathe with me, Bev. Please.”  

Her breathing is catching on sobs, but slowing down. There’s an ugly sniff and the sound of her blowing her nose.

This is so fucking _stupid_. Sometimes he wants to throw his ideals about giving people space and autonomy out the window and just hold his girls safe to him, the scar on Abigail’s throat and the scars on Beverly’s mind and just hoard the horror to himself so they don’t have to. It’s not like he can sleep anyway, and nothing—nothing _real_ , anyway—has happened to him, like it has to them. “Beverly,” he says into the phone. “I wish I could be there.”

“I’m sorry, Will,” says Bev. “I know I fucked up.”

“Bev. Bev, Beverly. No part of this is on you,” he chides. “Honestly, I’m kind of pissed I even have to say it.”

“Yeah, yeah, whoo, feminism,” she says, with a defeated chuckle. “But I should…make better choices.”

“You should be able,” he says with a sudden burst of seething anger, “to watch fucking Netflix without thinking about—”

Her sigh is like crinkling aluminum foil, tinny and exasperated. “I _should_ , Will. I can’t.”

It's the resignation that slams his lungs flat. “I’m sorry,” he says. It's a thick whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“Like it’s your fault,” she snorts, sounding almost normal. “Thanks for—thanks for calling.”

“Of—of _course_ , Bev, when the fuck would I not— _hello_ , I think we’re _friends_ , I—”

“I know,” she says. “But sometimes it’s hard to remember that I deserve good things. And you’re a good thing, Will.”

“Only the best for you, Bev.”

He imagines he can hear her smiling through the phone. It's a good fantasy.

“Okay. My parents are calling me down, ugh. Probably to wash dishes.”

“Okay.” But Will hovers, doesn’t hang up. “Are you—going to be all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.” The word always sounds strangled. He doesn’t quite believe the words, but her voice does sound stronger. “Hey, don’t worry about it, Graham. I’ll be fine.”

“I want you to be better than _fine_.” It’s plaintive, and a little sad, but at least it’s true.

“You’re the reason a girl has dreams, Will,” she says wryly. “Say hi to Abigail for me. Tell her I want all the gay details.”

“ _There are no gay—_ ”

“Bye, Will.”

He’s hit with muffled silence before he can say goodbye. Bev has already disconnected. He shoves his phone into his back pocket, ignoring the text that pops up from Abigail asking him where he is. Perhaps he has smoked too deeply—he can feel the wine and amaretto and nicotine sitting in the front of his skull and winding a cobra’s coil around his breathing, which comes laborious and slow. He can feel the familiar pinch in his chest and tries to calm it, hands clenching and unclenching, palms sweaty even in the cold brisk air.

The door closes quietly behind him, and Will closes his eyes. He can tell, from the rich scent of cologne and the crisp footfall, that it is Hannibal. Not like this—he doesn’t want Hannibal to see him like this, chest heaving with short thin stratosphere breaths and a vortex of darkness threatening to take his words away from him until his mind is a starless night.

“Will.”

He nods. He’s sure he looks frantic as he tries to mimic normalcy.

Hannibal places a soft hand on his back.

“Are you experiencing a panic attack?”

Will shakes his head; thinks better of it, nods. Hannibal’s thumb is rubbing calm circles in the gap between Will’s scarf and the collar of his coat, just firm circles around the vertebra there. It’s warm, and Will leans back into it, hungry for anything to bring him back to Earth.

“Does this happen often?”

Will half-shrugs. What’s _often_? He doesn’t have a baseline for how normal people operate.

“Will. Will.”

His breathing is only getting higher and thinner, breaching the ozone layer into the gasping airlessness of outer space. It’s cold and dark and he’s losing his sight, the world wrung to the tiny points of pain behind his eyes. 

He feels strong arms wrap around him from behind, engulfing him in a beautiful warmth. A breath tickles next to his ear. “Your name is Will Graham. It is 10:07 p.m. You are just outside of Baltimore, Maryland, at my house.” His ribs rattle with the effort to pull in enough air, his hands are scrabbling at Hannibal’s where they hold him tightly. “Repeat after me.”

“Can’t—”

“Indulge me, Will,” Hannibal says, and his voice unfurls over him like the graceful line of a dévelopé arabesque. “My name—”

“My name—is Will Graham,” Will pants, harsh cold air in his nose and grasping at his tear ducts. “I’m—I’m near Baltimore, Maryland. I’m at your house.”

“And what time is it?”

“It—it was 10:07 when you said it, but—I don’t—I don’t know what time it is now—”

“10:08, Will. You have lost barely any time.”

Will just shudders in his arms, tugs at Hannibal’s wrists to encapsulate him more fully with few notions for shame. “I don’t mean to—you should go back to your guests.”

“You are my guest,” Hannibal says, and covers Will’s injured hand with his own. “And I am exactly where I want to be.”

Will feels a short laugh escape him despite himself. “I highly doubt you ever aren’t.”

He feels Hannibal smile against his ear. “This is true.”

Will tilts his head back onto Hannibal’s shoulder, breaths coming more easily. They’re cold but good. They stand like that for a minute, watching the velvet dark eat the lines of the other houses in the cul-de-sac. “I wonder,” Will says, low in his throat, “what Dean du Maurier would say if she saw us now.”

“Bedelia should not be of your concern,” Hannibal says.

“She seemed hostile,” Will says. “Are you and she—?” He blushes at the presumption of his question, the audacity—also, that _he_ and Hannibal might be—

Well, it wasn’t every day your professor sucked your fingers into your mouth like he was starved for it. 

A low laugh. “Bedelia was _rather fond_ of Dr. Fell,” Hannibal says. “I think she resents his…replacement.”

“So…this…” Will steps back more firmly into Hannibal’s arms, smiles when Hannibal pulls him so they are aligned, almost seamless.

“This,” Hannibal agrees.

Will bites his lip. It would be so easy to turn his head—he can imagine the not-scrape of Hannibal’s freshly shaved face, the rasping surprised noise he might make—to touch Hannibal’s lips to his own, to finally move his queen in a game they’ve been playing at a glacial pace. To feel those gently carved lips with his tongue, his teeth, to mark them with his own kisses and bites, to feel them meld against his own when they’ve already shared so many words and now they share breaths, less even on Will’s end, but shared nonetheless. 

“Why did you panic, Will?”

Will wants to roll his eyes. Of course he had to shatter the moment with questions about Will’s _wellbeing_. “Bev—my roommate?”

Hannibal nods.

“Beverly called. She was suffering from an episode of—well, PTSD, a flashback, is what it is.”

Hannibal just makes a short noise of assent.

“She was…she was…” Will takes a deep breath. It still hurts him to say it, and it always, always tastes disgusting. “She was raped this spring. It was a stranger. She’d met him in a bar, but only really talked for five minutes or so. She left separately, but he—he caught her walking home alone. I should’ve—” He snaps his mouth shut against the waver that creeps into his voice, takes a calming breath, then continues. “He forced her into a bathroom and raped her. Anally, then vaginally."

Hannibal’s hand grips more tightly to Will’s, making him wince as his glass-cuts bear the pressure of Hannibal’s long, trapping fingers. 

“Women suffer unbearable indignities,” Hannibal says finally.

“Even at _Georgetown_ ,” Will says. He lets the bitter iron color his voice. He is—and can’t imagine not being enraged that nobody had protected her, that Bev had gone through this all alone—

“And yet—I find you outside, unable to breathe,” Hannibal says.

“After she told me, I dreamed about it for _weeks_ ,” Will says shortly. “But I can’t do anything else. It doesn’t help anyone for me to wake up, sweaty with a nightmare, if I can’t change anything. If I can’t _help_ her.”

“Surely you see that you help her immensely, by being available.”

Will shakes his head, almost violently enough to dislodge himself from Hannibal’s embrace. “Not enough. Never enough.”

“What would be enough, then?”

“I—” Truth be told, Will has thought about this part _a lot_ , at first every day and now every time he sees that particular wince on Bev’s face, but he’s never felt so safe or comfortable saying it aloud as he does when he growls into Hannibal’s dipped listening ear—“I want to kill him.”

Hannibal makes a humming noise, adjusts so there is a little more space between them. “Perhaps that would be therapeutic for you.”

Will barks out a laugh. “Murder as therapy? Unorthodox even for someone of your tastes, Dr. Lecter.”

“How would you do it?”

Will closes his eyes. The image is recalled as easily as it always is. “ _With my hands,_ ” he says. “Tear his throat out with my teeth. Rip his belly open to uncoil his entrails. Keep him awake and make him watch until he dies of shock. Display him with a sign attached so that _everybody knows_ what happens when you—when you—”

“When you hurt Will Graham’s friends?”

“ _No_ ,” Will snaps. “When you _rape_ , when you become such an animal, a pig, you should be killed like one, carved up for _parts_.”

Hannibal shivers but does not step any further away. 

Will is suddenly conscious of the words that he’s let slip, the horror of them filtering back to him. “I mean—I would never—”

“I find it interesting that there is no sexual component to this fantasy,” Hannibal interrupts. “You do not seek to reciprocate what he did to your friend.”

“I’m not like him,” Will says. His voice is deliciously frigid.  “I will never be so— _low_ —as him.”

Suddenly his world flips and he’s afraid that Hannibal is going to hurt him for the violence of his words, but he’s pressed up next to the door, under the porch light, and Hannibal’s cold hands are framing his face. They’re pressed even closer than before, and, fuck, Hannibal has an _erection_.

“Oh,” Will says, and stifles a low sound in his throat when Hannibal only grinds closer. He grips the fabric around the curve of Hannibal’s warm waist, raises an eyebrow and holds Hannibal’s gaze. “Does hearing me talk about murder get you off?”

“Not so much as hearing you so _alight_ ,” Hannibal demurs. “You set me on fire, Will. The idea of your hands enacting grace and justice in viscera—”

“Jesus, Hannibal—”

“ _Your hands—_ ”

Will pushes upward with his hips and feels the heady rush of satisfaction at Hannibal’s soft gasp. He knows Hannibal can feel how hard he is, just as he can feel the hot outline of Hannibal’s dick against his own hip. His eyes flutter shut with the memory of Hannibal’s tongue, wants it in his mouth, wants it on his _cock_ —

He wants, he wants, he wants. 

“Oh, Will,” Hannibal murmurs. “I can still taste your blood.”

The air is saturated with the heavy wasp-wing sounds of tension, of anticipation. Will waits for a kiss that doesn’t come. He feels rather than sees the lengths of elegant fingers brush his hair back from his temples, his brow, tap-dance lines over his cheekbones. Their breath mingles, thick and sweet from the liquor. Hannibal is so close his features are blurred like charcoal on draft paper; all Will can see is the feeling of smooth lips just above his own, close enough to feel the dry stick of saliva, far enough that if Bev asks he can answer definitively that no, they haven’t kissed. To kiss Hannibal would not be some soft coy thing, this brushing of mouths, no, it would be—

Hannibal steps away, left hand lingering still on Will’s face for a moment before he busies them with his jacket. Will knows he’s still hard, but the edges of his suit come together to hide it. Then he hides those sinful hands in the pockets of his coat. 

Will stands there, his hands still molded with the shape of Hannibal’s body. A beat, then he lets them fall. They’re both breathing ragged, heavy breaths. 

“Your guests will be missing you,” Will says quietly into the space between them.

Hannibal nods, a sharp acknowledgement, then opens the door, letting Will slip inside first. He follows close behind.


End file.
